


Askew

by Adaris



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Canon typical eyeballs, Era typical misogyny, Essentially the antics of Jonah Magnus figuring out that oh no, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Not Canon Compliant, Peter's dad is named Zachariah and he is a bad father, Secret bonus vessel for Jonah unlocked: Mara Ferris, Shoving all your emotions down into the Emotion Vault, he does NOT want to be in this body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21572395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adaris/pseuds/Adaris
Summary: Unlike some avatars, Jonah has to move between a succession of different host bodies, picking a new one when the old one wore out. Like clothes, or so he always thought. Well, if bodies were clothes, then this one was the worst outfit he'd ever worn.Warning for body dysphoria.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 68





	Askew

**Author's Note:**

> If I write fast enough all the emotions will go onto the page instead of eating me alive that's how this works right

This body was actually a brilliant idea. He had to keep anyone from finding out who he really was, and becoming a woman was a perfect solution. It would throw people off the trail. And besides, the Eye was curious about what it would be like. The more he thought about it, the more the Eye hungered.

So he chose his new host with this in mind. Mara Ferris, thirty-one years old, with an oval face and long, curly chestnut hair. People claimed to like the way she smiled. She never saw it coming.

Jonah stepped over the old body of James Wright and nearly fell over because his feet weren’t working properly. What in the—was there something wrong with Mara’s ankles?

He steadied himself on the wall to look—he was wearing ruby red high heels. Ridiculous for a man of his—for a woman—no. He had to learn how to do this—no. _She_ had to get more comfortable like this.

Mara Ferris took a step in the heels, then another. Wasn’t so hard, it was just uncomfortable. The toes pinched, and the stockings were bunched up like no one’s business. Mara scowled and tried to take the steps out of the Panopticon two at a time, but her legs wouldn’t work properly _again_. 

J—Mara looked for the culprit and discovered it was her pencil skirt, which had no give and was essentially a tube made for keeping her stride short.

After a moment, she made her way up the stairs, swearing under her breath.

Something swung in her face, and she swatted it away without thinking, but it was her own hair. Soft and shiny.

Mara was glad she’d waited to steal this body at the end of the day, so she could just go home and kick off all this rubbish. He—she already knew the way to her flat. The walk back felt longer than the usual fifteen minutes it took, the air cold and crisp against her skin.

"Nice legs, sweetheart!" someone called.

Another person wolf-whistled.

"Fuck off," Mara snapped. There were eyes on her wherever she went—not the Beholding’s, just people’s. Admiring her body like she was on display in a bakery window.

She hurried inside her flat and locked the door behind her. It was a reasonably clean place, if rather purple for J—Mara’s taste.

She shucked off her coat and kicked the shoes away contemptuously. Then came off the stockings, flung into a corner of the room. How did anyone wear them when they cut into your stomach like that? Mara glared in their general direction. Then she took off the floaty blouse and that stupid pencil skirt.

Which left the bra.

Jonah had little experience with bras in general, and taking it off proved complicated. Mara wiggled her way over to the mirror, still struggling, and gasped in shock.

Who the fuck was that little thing in the mirror?

The only familiar thing was the eyes—the same shade of green. Right, that was her. No big deal. That was fine.

She poked her breasts, still stuck inside that infernal bra. Her stomach was soft and pudgy, her thighs and legs rounded and smooth. Her underwear matched—frilly red lace. Hardly workplace-appropriate. She looked away, not wanting to see more, but caught a glimpse of the red bra in her peripheral vision.

Well, all she had to do was get it off. There had to be a knack to it, some way of removing it without ripping the damn thing in half. Eventually, she got the straps off and unhooked the back. But how was she to get it on again…

Mara flung the bra away and went to get a set of pajamas. That was a problem for tomorrow, but she quickly encountered another problem. The pajamas were all nightdresses.

Didn’t this woman own any shirts? Trousers? Socks that weren’t made of lace? For goodness’ sake!

Mara tore through the closet but found nothing suitable, and she settled in on the least lacy nightdress. She’d have to get used to it. Being a woman. Dressing in a womanly fashion, whatever the blessed second sight that was.

There was always a period of adjustment, wasn’t there? How many times had he smacked James Wright's head into doorframes?

Dinner was easy; Mara kept leftovers in her fridge, and she just reheated them on the stove. Not bad, but not the best, either. She ate less than she would have normally, on account of being so small, and had leftover leftovers to put into the fridge.

Then she had to shower.

Mara had a full-length mirror in the bathroom, likely out of vanity. She shucked off the nightdress and panties and stood in front of it, but looking at her own body was… uncomfortable. Probably still too new.

The shower felt good, though. Nothing like hot water. She washed her hair, getting her long fingernails caught in the tangled strands. Then she took a washcloth to her body—a mistake. She looked down and caught sight of her breasts again, not large, but so _round_ nonetheless. She squished one and didn’t appreciate how it moved. And the nipples were very odd, large and dark and rather… excitable? To be expected, though. As was the absence of a cock. Very expected. Absolutely fine.

She stepped out of the shower quickly, glad the mirror had fogged over, and dressed in a hurry.

Her hair had turned into a wet, rat-tailed mat, and she spent an interesting half-hour attempting to dry it. The attractive glossy ringlets had turned into a dull tangle without any of the curl. She combed it, but it remained straight and frizzy.

Just before she left the bathroom, she saw herself in the mirror and realized her makeup had run in the shower. She groaned and tried to wipe it off, but only succeeded in smearing it even more—there has to be some trick to this. Right?

In the end, she scrubbed it off with a washcloth, leaving her face pink and shiny.

Mara climbed thankfully into bed after shoving all the decorative pillows onto the floor for later. It had been a longer day than anticipated.

The covers lay heavy on top of her, and it was strange, but she could feel them touching her breasts, reminding her they were there. Uncomfortably _there_. She crossed her arms over them, but it didn’t feel any better. She rolled onto her side, but they rolled too, laying strangely against each other in a way that they never had before. Well, not his. Hers. Fuck.

After tossing and turning for half an hour, she finally pushed the covers away and slept with her chest uncovered.

A long day, indeed.

—

Saturday morning came too soon. She scowled at the light sneaking over the bedsheets and dragged herself out of bed. Getting dressed was a challenge, especially where the bra was concerned. She did manage to get one on, though.

The biggest problem was that all the clothes were frilly, ruffled, lacy, or flowery, and sometimes all four. Mara picked through the things in her wardrobe until she came up with a plain black skirt, a white button-down top with an unobtrusive floral print, and a blazer. True, the blazer was bright purple, but it was in a reasonably plain style. Her hair was a tangled nest that a comb couldn’t really help, so she tied it back. Makeup was thankfully a lost cause, and she left that for another time. Mara scowled at her reflection and slunk into the kitchen.

She ate three eggs and a slice of toast for breakfast, grabbed her stupid little handbag, and went out into the city.

"You’d look prettier with some makeup on, sweetheart!"

"Do I look like I fucking care?" she roared, but her voice was so high and reedy, she only sounded shrill, and the man laughed as she trotted by on a pair of glossy purple high heels. She’d kill him later; no, she’d feed him to Gertrude. Yes, that was very appealing.

She stormed into the nearest clothing store—a Marks and Spencer—and went to the men’s section. Ordinarily, she would never have shopped there, but times were desperate.

"Shopping for your husband?" a sales associate asked. She had the same glossy curls Mara used to have; she almost wanted to ask how she’d gotten her hair that way.

"No—er," Mara said. "I’m shopping for my… son…"

"Well, these jumpers are just the cutest! You can’t go wrong with these. What size is your son?"

"Extra large," she said reflexively, which was a comedic mistake. That would fit two-meter-tall James Wright, but not barely-a-meter-and-a-half Mara. Fuck.

The sales associate pressed the correctly sized jumper into Mara’s hands. "Let me know if I can help you with anything else!"

"Right. ‘Course. Thank you."

Mara beat a hasty retreat to the women's wear, where everything would hopefully fit. She managed to grab an armful of clothes in respectable colors, trousers included, hiding the too-large men’s jumper at the bottom of the pile.

In the changing room, she shedded the purple abomination, put on the ordinary white button-down and perfectly normal black slacks from the petite section, and inspected her reflection.

It was better, the way she might have dressed ordinarily, but it still looked _wrong_. Felt wrong. This body didn’t fit, no matter how she dressed up, like a cheap suit in place of something custom-made, like trying to cram a hand into a glove that was just too small, like wearing the worst outfit in the world and never being able to take it off.

Mara turned away, feeling hot tears well in her eyes. This was fine. She was being crazy. This was fine. She burst into tears, thinking _this is fine_ again and again in her head.

She never cried this easily as James.

Mara slid to the ground, covering her face in her arms, flat-out sobbing.

"Are you alright in there, miss?"

"Yes," she practically wailed. "I’m fine." She dug the men’s jumper out from under the pile of women’s clothes and sobbed into the soft knit fabric. If only she could disappear into the ocean.

The gaze of the Beholding turned on her hungrily, sensing weakness. Everyone thought she was a woman now, everyone was watching her cry, everyone would see what she was—

"Someone feels lonely," a familiar voice singsonged. "My, Jonah, how beautiful you look."

"Shut up, Zachariah." She hunched in on herself, the slightly snotty jumper clutched in her hands.

He looked at her with a distant, nigh-uninterested gaze, but she knew he was desperate to understand. "Seeing you like this is so… unusual. Dare I say _provocative_?"

"Fuck off," she spat.

"That’s hardly language fit for such a lovely lady." He sounded just as old as he looked, like he belonged in some period drama. Those Lukas bastards really got worse with age.

Mara glared at him like she could kill him that way. "Suck my cock."

"Gladly. If you still have one lying around," he said with oily charm.

That was low. "Shove it up your arse."

He put up a hand placatingly, like she was a naughty child who had to be given a lecture. "Now, sweetheart—"

"Don’t call me that," she hissed, grabbing Zachariah by his jacket and shoving him into the mirror behind her. It took all her strength to make the somewhat thin older man move backwards a single step, where before she could've lifted him off the ground with one hand. "Get the fuck out."

"Alright, alright. You got me." He gave her the slimiest of smiles. "I’ll see you around, my lovely lonely lady."

She tried to stab him with the heel of her pointy shoes, but he’d already vanished into the mists from whence he had come. The heel slammed into the mirror, and a hairline crack split the silver surface. 

Close enough.

After a long few minutes gathering herself together, she tried on the next outfit, and the next. They were all… fine. Acceptable.

She reached for the clothes she'd worn into the store, the skirt and blouse and almost-not-lace blazer and choked, her hand refusing to go a single inch further. She had to wear _something_. But she couldn't wear this. Not again. She couldn't fucking—

This was fine.

She shoved the discomfort deep, deep into the recesses of her thoughts. As far down as it would go.

She couldn't even look at herself as she dressed, had to keep her eyes closed for most of it. In a rush, she gathered all the things she wanted to buy and legged it to the checkout counter.

"Did you find everything you were looking for?" the cashier asked.

"Yes." She gave the cashier a look that would have sent Maxwell Rayner scurrying for cover like a cockroach from a kitchen light.

"Good to hear. That'll be four hundred thirty-nine pounds and sixty-one pence."

Mara would have paid any amount the cashier named, no matter how extravagant. Well, at least all of that was over.

—

"Hello, Mara. How are you finding your new body?" Gertrude asked icily.

"It fucking sucks," she snapped, not in the mood to trade barbs with the Archivist. Particularly not after hearing that name. All she wanted was to go into her office and close the door and never be seen by human eyes ever again.

"Oh. What’s wrong with it?"

"I am," she said cryptically before making a break for her office. The last thing she wanted was Gertrude prying the truth from her—she couldn't stand for anyone else to find out.

And of course, Gertrude picked up on it. "That’s unusual for you to say."

"Go read a statement, Archivist."

"Not hungry," Gertrude said drily. "What are you really thinking?"

She ducked into her office without saying anything. The door closed with a satisfying click, but all she could hear was the way the Archivist had said _Mara_. Made her skin crawl.

She missed being James. His body had been so comfortable, even worn and old. Now she was so… So…

Maybe she could keep using his name.

No, that was madness, someone would notice.

Still.

Maybe just in her own head? Until all of this blew over. It felt better, anyway.

James tried it out, just thinking. She could handle this—but it still felt strange.

The female pronouns had to go, too.

Just in his head, though. He couldn’t say any of this out loud, but until he got better at playing the part of Mara, it would work.

He kicked up his feet on his desk.

Yes, this was fine.

He wondered when it would be acceptable for him to switch bodies again. The directors of the Magnus Archives had always hung around for forty years, sometimes even longer. It would be suspicious if Mara just died immediately. How long, then?

—

It was five years before James found Elias, stacking boxes and getting high (sometimes at the same time) in records room three. How had he even gotten himself hired?

Well, that was irrelevant for now. What mattered was that he had few friends, wasn't in contact with his family, and was tall. Still young, not much older than twenty, with a handsome jawline and sparkling sky blue eyes.

James couldn't _wait_ to gouge out those eyes.


End file.
